


this memory still with me

by radialarch



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, jon lovett goes to hollywood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-22 10:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: When Lovett moved out here, it took him six months to stop writingspeechwriteron every form that asked him for his occupation. Now he’s got a whole different set of titles, a TV show, a future stretched out in front of him in a shape he’d never really imagined.





	this memory still with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cinderlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinderlily/gifts).



> i hope this is sort of what you were looking for, cinderlily!
> 
> thanks to gdgdbaby for steady and patient hand holding through this entire experience. title from walk the moon's portugal.

###### 2011

“Three minutes,” someone yells over the sounds of Dick Clark on TV. “Tom, are we out of fucking champagne?”

“No way,” Tommy yells back, “check the cooler,” and then a pair of legs come around the corner and promptly trips over Lovett, who’s perched at the bottom of the stairs with his feet sticking out.

“Hey,” Jon says, catching himself with a hand on the wall. “That’s where you went.” Then he peers closer, hazy grin going sharper with concern. “You okay?”

“‘m fine,” Lovett says, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. “I think there’s a couple bottles chilling in the fridge.”

Instead of leaving, Jon sets himself down in the space between Lovett and the banister, insistent until Lovett shifts over to make room for him. “C’mon,” he says. “What’s up?”

That, Lovett thinks, is a complicated question. But Jon’s got a look that says he’s not letting go of the issue, so eventually he sighs and picks the easiest option. “That guy from Justice,” he says. “We’re like, not seeing each other anymore, I guess.”

Jon jerks his head up, like Carl’s magically gonna materialize at the party if he looks hard enough, then swings his gaze back to Lovett. “He dumped you on _New Year’s Eve_?”

He sounds so outraged Lovett nearly laughs. “No,” he says, “it was a couple weeks ago, and it was a mutual, like—” Lovett fumbles for words, can’t quite grasp them in this state. He’s only had a couple of drinks, but the melancholy part of his brain has apparently decided that’s plenty. “It wasn’t working out,” he finally sets upon. “We— we weren’t right for each other, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” Lovett says, and shrugs. “So like. I didn’t wanna tell my mom.”

It’s not the only reason he didn’t go home, but it’s the simplest to think about. At least on a list of things his parents have to be disappointed in him for, this one’s predictable.

“Sorry,” Jon says. He sounds it, too, sincere and sympathetic, and it only makes Lovett feel worse.

“Oh, don’t start,” he snaps. “You don’t know what it’s like, you never—” It’s a curious truth of Washington that Jon’s more or less a celebrity. The President’s genius speechwriter, so young, so talented. Jon hooks up more than he dates — his latest thing with Rashida seems to have petered out, at any rate — but somehow he manages to stay on good terms with everyone he’s fucked. Lovett’s dead certain Jon’s never been dumped in his life.

“What what’s like,” Jon says, soft, the faintest hint of challenge in the tilt of his chin. He’s always known how to get what he wants out of Lovett; it’s been driving him crazy for years.

“To not _know_ , all right? Like, I break up with a guy, I gotta spend the next two weeks interrogating myself. Was it something i did? Am _I_ the common factor here? Am I doomed to spend the rest of my years alone and friendless, much like how this year seems determined to come in, and should I just settle in and get used to how that feels—”

Later, when Lovett’s brain reconstructs this moment in cinematic detail, it will add in the noise of the party, Cody and Michael’s laughter floating out of the living room, the muted murmur of the TV through it all. It will remind him of the dim light slanting across the bridge of Jon’s nose, the slow blink of his eyes, the flicker of his tongue between his teeth before Jon swayed forward. He’d braced a hand against the wall above Lovett’s shoulder, his wrist nearly brushing the top of Lovett’s collar, and his mouth had been warm when he pressed it to Lovett’s, slow and steady.

Jon smells like the champagne, his stubble rough on Lovett’s cheek, and for a moment Lovett’s swept away by the tidal force that is Jon, can’t think of anything else. That’s always been what’s intoxicating about Jon, the surety with which he holds himself. The world realigns when Jon’s around; it’s simpler, clearer, and there’s no room in it for Lovett to lie to himself, about what he wants.

It’s the countdown that breaks Lovett out of it, makes him pull back with a soft noise in his throat. When he opens his eyes Jon’s still looking at him, a faint smile on his lips.

“What,” Lovett says, breath frozen in his lungs, “was that?”

“Hey, Jon,” comes Tommy’s voice down the hall, his long shadow. “You get lost or what?”

“Just looking,” Jon calls back, easy, “one sec,” and slowly pushes himself up to his feet. “Happy New Year, Lovett.”

He lopes off for the champagne. Lovett blinks after him, brings up a hand to touch his mouth, bewildered, and decides to go to bed.

———

New Year’s Eve is Friday. Lovett spends Saturday pretending his hangover is worse than it is and Sunday replaying _Portal_ , and when he comes into the office on Monday the speechwriting staff have fully transitioned into SOTU mode.

“Liaise with Energy,” Jon tells Lovett after the morning meeting, distracted, and then, “Hey, listen, about Friday night—”

 _Uh oh_ , Lovett thinks, because he’s spent a number of hours trying not to think _about Friday night_ , and from the looks of it Jon wants to discuss it right now in this hallway while Axe and Plouffe are navigating around them. “Don’t,” he says, and starts for the staircase at the fastest pace he can go without looking like he’s fleeing the premises. “We really don’t have to talk about it.”

“We _do_ ,” Jon insists, “Lovett, you know we can’t— I mean, I’m your— and you—” He’s following him briskly through the hall, which at least means senior advisors to the President aren’t involved in the conversation. Lovett wonders briefly if this is Jon’s secret. Work out all parties’ expectations, thorough and early, and hopefully that means no bad blood at the end of it.

If that’s the goal, they’re doing this a little backwards.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Lovett finally says, pausing at the first story landing. There’s no way he can outrun Jon anyway. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.”

“Do you?” Jon says with a touch of surprise. Well, Lovett’s had a lot of lows in his life, but being so pathetic that the guy he’s been harboring a not insignificant crush on pity-kisses him is a new one. Jon’s probably never even been in the neighborhood of this low.

“Obviously I do.” The real mistake was letting Jon do it. The way Jon had smiled at him after, small and familiar — like it hadn’t been an unfathomable act, knocking Lovett’s world permanently off its axis. “Look, we’re both adults, I get it, all right? We don’t have to discuss it like we’re, we’re setting down a contract, let’s just take it as understood.”

There’s still a faint frown creasing Jon’s forehead, the tilt of his eyebrows quizzical. The worst thing about this is that Lovett knows Jon’s being kind. He’s trying to make sure Lovett doesn’t come out of this hurt, and Lovett can’t explain that it’s far, far too late: that if that had been Jon’s intention, maybe he shouldn’t have hired Lovett, back in 2009 when Jon had been the new star in town, and Lovett hadn’t been anything at all.

“So you’re okay,” Jon says, “if we set it aside—” gentle and careful, and Lovett says, “Yes,” a lie he’s had a lifetime of practice telling.

“We’re _fine_ , so why don’t you stop thinking about it and go contemplate like, the Union, comma, State of, all right?”

“Fuck you,” Jon mumbles, starting to grin, and it’s not Lovett’s best, not by a long shot — but he’ll take it.

———

It’s not like Lovett has a lot of time to mope. Such is the life of a presidential speechwriter. A week into the new year someone tries to murder Congresswoman Giffords, _does_ murder six other people, and that calls for a speech. Cody basically doesn’t sleep for two days, getting the final draft out on time for the memorial. Jon for his part is fully panicking, which means Lovett starts looking for him at various Starbucks instead of his office. It’s a pain in the ass. “Can you at least _pick_ a place,” Lovett says once, after he comes up empty his first two tries. “What was wrong with the one on 14th?”

“Just couldn’t write there,” Jon shrugs, a little sheepish, draining the rest of his espresso. “You got suggestions for me?”

Lovett passes over the legal pad, watches Jon flip through the pages. He can tell when Jon gets to the salmon line by the way his face lights up, laughter briefly cutting through exhaustion. “He’s gonna like that,” Jon says, tearing off the relevant sheets, and gives the pad back to Lovett. There’s a pause when he reaches for his coffee again and finds it empty. “Jesus.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“Tuesday,” Lovett says, encouraging, “just gotta make it until then,” which they both know is a total lie.

Jon groans, tipping forward to press his head into his arms. “Yeah,” he says, muffled. “No national emergencies after January. Sounds good.”

The problem with working at the White House, Lovett is beginning to realize as January turns into February, is that stuff never stops happening. Ben and Terry are working on remarks for the New START ratification, have been since Congress approved the treaty in December. Then comes some sort of civil war in Libya and a revolution in Egypt, and inside the country the new Republican Congress won’t pass a fucking budget. Lovett knows Democrats don’t tend to do great in midterms, do even worse when they’re sitting in the White House, but he still gets the occasional urge to go down to the Georgetown campus and ask some carefree freshmen why they hate their country.

And, above it all, there’s the looming specter of reelection.

Barack Obama officially declares his intent to run on April 4, but the gears set in motion before that. People like Axe and Jim Messina are turning in their resignations at the White House to slip through the wall that separates _government_ from _campaign_ , and with every departure Lovett keeps thinking, _I never meant to stay this long_.

It’s funny, because Lovett is living, in a lot of ways, a success story. He’s 28 years old, and his job is to tell the President of the United States what to say. He never thought, when John Kerry lost the election in ‘04, when Hillary Clinton lost the nomination in ‘08, that he’d end up here anyway: the White House, the holy grail of politics. It should be enough. It is enough, for a lot of people. They spend their whole lives trying to get here. Lovett’s mom keeps copies of every speech he’s written and he makes the President laugh on a regular basis — why would he want to leave all that behind?

But Lovett hadn’t gone to law school after college, the path of least resistance; he’d done the stand-up circuit in New York before he found his way to politics. Sometimes Lovett thinks maybe he’s hiding here, funny enough in a city that tends to lack humor, as a whole, but not funny enough to make it anywhere else.

The truth is, Lovett was never the right person to fit into this job: too graceless, loud and frank, unsubtle in a city that speaks in circles. Three years in, he’s starting to wonder how much longer he can stay before something breaks.

———

The White House Correspondents’ Dinner comes at the end of April, and it is, perhaps, the one speech every year that Lovett feels completely confident in taking charge.

Everyone has a role in the speechwriting staff, a niche. Ben’s been doing foreign policy since Obama’s ‘08 campaign. Cody does pathos, a reminder that the senseless and tragic are happening far too often in far too many places. Adam takes faith, civil rights: the kind of stuff that Barack Obama, by virtue of his existence as the first black president, must always be exquisitely aware of, and navigates with such nuance. And Jon — well, you call Jon when a speech is really, _really_ important.

Lovett writes a lot about gay rights, for obvious reasons; writes a lot about science, because the West Wing is a hotbed of social science majors and he grew up watching _Star Trek_ past midnight; and writes a lot of jokes, because—

“We gotta do it,” Lovett says, two days before the dinner. Obama’s long-form birth certificate just went up on whitehouse.gov yesterday, and the timing’s perfect. “C’mon, tell me POTUS didn’t plan this.”

“You don’t think he has more important things to worry about?” Jon says, mouth twitching. “Yeah, no, it’s good, really good. Gotta make sure Disney’s not gonna sue us, but.” He pauses. “On the other hand, the A/V people are definitely gonna kill you.”

“We need to get more patriotic A/V people,” Lovett returns. “This is _radical transparency_ , all right? No other president has been brave enough, open enough to release the exact moment of his birth—”

“Yeah, I hear half of them were never even caught on video tape at all.” Jon’s still laughing when he pushes his chair back from his desk and returns the outline Lovett had scribbled, watching the press office begin the release process. “Okay, so you want me to talk to the visual team, or you wanna tighten it up first?”

“I mean, I think they’ll get the gist.” Really, at heart, it’s not a complicated bit. The best jokes never are. “You wanna come over later, though, you can help with the edits.”

“Sorry, can’t,” Jon says, apologetic. “I’m supposed to meet Rashida after work, actually.”

Lovett doesn’t know why that comes as such a surprise. “Oh,” he says after a minute. “Didn’t know she was in town.”

“Yeah, just for a couple days.” Jon looks a little sheepish. “She called me up, you know, the usual, said she was gonna be around through the Correspondents’ Dinner, so I thought I’d take her.”

 _I thought you guys broke up_ , Lovett nearly says, but that’s not— that’s not how Jon and Rashida had worked, anyway, and it doesn’t matter, does it? What business is it of Lovett’s whether they did or not, or if they’re— getting back together, seeing each other casually, whatever. Jon’s always been free to do whatever he wants.

“You okay?” Jon says cautiously, and Lovett ruthlessly crushes down the part of his brain that’s protesting, _you kissed me_ , the part of him that feels like he’s being left out of going to prom. High school was a decade ago, and Lovett’s supposed to be past this, the old habit of desperately wanting and never having.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “Believe it or not, I don’t actually need you to edit my jokes.”

Jon waves a vague hand between them. “We’re not,” he says, clearing his throat, “um, you know, I know we talked about—”

“Jon,” Lovett cuts in before Jon can explain exactly what they are not. He doesn’t want to know. “It’s fine. Say hi to Rashida for me.”

———

Tim Pawlenty joke aside, the Correspondents’ Dinner goes beautifully. And sure, some credit goes to Obama — the guy’s got a great sense of comedic timing, Lovett will be the first to admit — but Lovett feels like he’s accomplished something, anyway, watching him deliver line after line to thunderous applause. The audience goes wild with the first notes of _The Lion King_ , and maybe it comes of being laughed at for the fifteen years of his life, but this is the high Lovett’s been chasing ever since: creating something people really can laugh at, with him instead of at.

Lovett’s first Correspondents’ Dinner was 2009. Back then, three months into the job, nervously surveying the Washington Hilton as the President went in on John Boehner, Lovett had promised himself: three years. Three years, and then he’d leave, because he didn’t want to be a speechwriter for the rest of his life. He liked it, but there were other things he wanted to do. Go to Hollywood. Write a TV show.

He’d woken up this morning and thought to himself, _what if I didn’t_. And some of that’s nerves, the prospect of leaving a job he’s sure of for a future that barely even exists; but another part of it is two tables over, sitting next to Rashida and laughing as POTUS delivers, pitch perfect, his next line.

 _I am going to leave_ , Lovett tells himself now, and along with the immediate panic comes clarity. _I have to_. That had always been true. He’s been thinking about it for months now; it’s just that every time, he’d found a reason to put the decision off.

It’s terrifying, but there’s certainty in making a choice, too. He grits his teeth and fumbles for his phone under the table.

 _I have to talk to you_ , he sends, _Monday_. Across the NPR table, he can see Jon’s shoulder twitch, the quick glance he slants downwards.

Obama’s winding down the speech. Lovett breathes out and shuts his phone off. He can do this, fumbling blindly into the unknown. He’s spent most of his life doing it.

———

“What if I wanna leave,” Lovett says, and Jon blinks at him. The timing kind of sucks — the whole White House is still buzzing about the bin Laden announcement from yesterday — but he’s gotta push through this. If he doesn’t do it now, he’ll never manage it.

“Leave where?”

“I wanna—” Lovett’s trying to get this right. Jon deserves that. “I don’t know, I think I’m kind of — done with all this, you know? Speechwriting. Politics. I've been doing it for a while, maybe it’s time to get out.”

Jon’s been doing this for longer than Lovett has, but he looks thoughtful. “I do know,” he says. “You wanna talk to Axe or Gibbs something? Or like, Rahm—”

Lovett snorts. “Yeah, _that’d_ be a pep talk.”

“Okay, not Rahm,” Jon concedes. “Bad idea. Do you know what you’d wanna do? If you leave.”

“Yeah, like, TV,” he says, feeling a little stupid talking about it out loud. But it’s what everyone does these days, isn’t it? Leave the White House, write a book. A show. “I mean, I don’t know what about, but I wanna—” he shrugs helplessly. “I probably would’ve gone to Hollywood if you didn’t hire me, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jon says. He’s got an elbow propped up on his desk, his chin cupped in his palm. “That’s a pretty big jump.”

“Well, writing’s writing.” Lovett sticks his hands beneath his thighs and tries not to fidget too much. “So what do you think?”

There’s a look that Lovett knows well, one that Jon gets when he’s thinking through a speech, testing how the words fit together before he sets them down. He’s wearing it when he settles back in his chair and presses his fingertips together.

“I think,” he says slowly, “well, so you’ve been thinking about this for a while—”

Lovett barks out a laugh. “You could say that.”

“I mean, if it feels right, you should do it.” Jon sounds certain about that. “We, you know, I’m gonna— but this place, it’s intense, takes a lot out of you. That’s how it is. Nobody’s gonna hold it against you if you need to do something different.”

And something about Jon’s tone makes Lovett ask, “What about you?”

“Me?” Jon rubs at the bridge of his nose. For a minute, he looks drained, tired all the way down to his bones. “There’s the reelect. Gotta get through that.”

“And after?” Lovett asks, but Jon waves that off. Already he’s straightening up, shaking the weariness from his shoulders.

“Look, but don’t just rush out of here,” he says, clearing his throat. “Make sure you’re set with whatever you’re gonna do, all right? I’m, um. I’m gonna miss you.”

That statement’s so simple, so _Jon_ that Lovett finds himself swallowing around a lump in his throat. It’s always like that, with him. It’s not his fault Lovett makes things complicated.

“I know,” he says solemnly, out of the space of everything he can, just to see the corner of Jon’s mouth curve up. “Look, you _are_ losing your best joke writer. I really don’t know how your office is gonna recover.”

 

###### 2012

Lovett leaves for California in September. He’s got a blind script deal with FOX, a public Twitter account, and a rented house in a corner of West Hollywood. His BlackBerry and badge are back in government possession, and he stuck around to watch the last of DADT get signed out of existence, but after that he’s out of excuses not to go.

So he goes.

California is — nice. Lots of sun, the air crisp and dry. More than that, there's none of the sense of urgency that seemed to drive everyone in the White House. Back there, deadlines all came with the thrum of a warning. How could they not? The White House played for the highest stakes, and the threat of catastrophe was always lurking, just out of sight.

Lovett doesn’t have to keep up with cable news 24/7 anymore. He gets used to west coast time, the Politico Playbook hitting his inbox even before he wakes up. He doesn’t have to leave the house if he doesn’t want to; he doesn’t have to put on _pants_. In California, Lovett’s not responsible for anyone except himself.

One month in, he hasn’t written a single page of his script.

“So my agent’s asking me how the script is going,” he tells Jon, sprawled upside down on his sofa with his legs kicked up, “and I can’t be like, well, I got nothing, check back later, right?”

“Hmm,” Jon says over the speaker. “Sounds kind of familiar.”

“Shut up! I was definitely better than that, I won’t have this.”

“No, you’re right, it was mostly avoidance. You’d throw me a page and then go hide under your desk.”

“I’m gonna hang up,” Lovett threatens, swinging back upright, but Jon just laughs. “I don’t know, I just haven’t figured out what to write about. Like, my dad wants me to write NCIS—”

“Does he know someone’s already doing that?” Jon queries, polite, and now Lovett’s the one laughing.

“—something _like_ NCIS, whatever. But like, I don’t know anything about crime. I’d just be making shit up.”

“Right, and what kind of terrible writer would do _that_?”

“You sound like a fact checker,” Lovett tells him spitefully. “I don’t make up important shit, thank you, just the unimportant parts. It’s essential to my integrity as a writer.”

“Sure,” Jon says. “Whatever you say. So hey, you don’t wanna write about politics?”

“No,” Lovett says. “Well. Maybe.” It’s a question he’s asked himself a few times, too, and never found a good answer for. “I don't know, it feels a little like cheating, I guess.” He chews his lip, flops onto his side. “Anyway, I don't wanna write the crappy reboot version of _The West Wing_ , you know? Maybe if I find a new angle.” He heaves a sigh into the crook of his arm. “How are things going over there?”

“You know, the usual,” Jon says. “G-20 coming up. Ben and Terry are working overtime. It’s busy.”

Lovett does know. It’s why he left. Still, he can’t help saying, “Hey, if you guys need any help—”

“No, we don’t— I wouldn’t do that,” Jon says. He’s so goddamn earnest. “We’re not even paying you.”

“Obviously I’m not gonna like, write the State of the Union for you,” Lovett says, rolling his eyes. “I’m just saying, if you ever need to talk to someone or bounce ideas or something.”

For a beat, Jon’s quiet. “Thanks,” he finally says. “You can always call me, too, you know that. Like, about anything.”

“What do you think I’ve _been_ doing?”

“Complaining,” Jon says dryly, and Lovett laughs.

“That not a part of _anything_?” he asks. “But yeah, I— sure. You tell me how the domestic prosperity thing is going, and I’ll tell you about the latest producer I hated. That sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Jon agrees, soft. “Just— stay in touch.”

———

In December, Lovett goes to a party with Josh Gad and comes out of it with a tentative show idea in mind. He spends a week trying to find a name for it before he lands on _1600 Penn_. Maybe that’s the first sign.

The second is that Jon sends out an email to a few of the people he knows who’ve stopped being government employees: _SOTU next month, just wanted to get a headcount of who’s interested in giving us a hand._

 _You wouldn’t start without me_ , Lovett sends back immediately. Jon hadn’t even needed to email, really — they’d talked about it a couple weeks ago, when Lovett had been in town for the turkey pardon. Jon always started thinking over themes long before he needed to put a single word down on paper, an idle turning over of ideas, and Lovett had always been good at drawing those out of him.

Maybe it should scare him, how fast he says _yes_.

Lovett spent two and a half years marking the passage of time with speech after speech, and he hasn’t been able to fall out of the habit. He watches the cable panels and reads the blogs, texts Adam and Cody and Jon commentary while reading through the official transcripts. He moved across the country to get away from all this and found out too late that the return was too easy, worn deep into muscle memory.

 _I know_ , Jon sends back to Lovett late at night, even later on his side of the coast. _Can't do it without you._ And Lovett, sitting in bed with his laptop lit up on his lap, has to think: it’s crazy, the way Jon says these things, sure and unthinking. Unfair, that he can make Lovett want to try, one more futile time, to go back and fit himself into Jon Favreau’s life.

 _How’s the script going_ , Jon asks, too, sometime later, long after Lovett would’ve expected him to have gone to bed, _hope you’re doing good_ , and Lovett doesn’t manage to decide how to answer that for a long, long while, slides straight into sleep before he can.

———

Lovett doesn’t go home for Hanukkah. He tells his mom he’s deep in a script, doesn’t wanna break the flow, which is mostly true. He has twenty pages on a pilot, notes for half a dozen more, and Josh likes what he’s seen of it, keeps floating execs to meet to pitch for a full-length show.

“Well, all right, honey,” his mom tells him, worry bleeding out loud through the call, “but don’t work too hard, okay? Make sure you’re getting enough to eat. Love you!”

Lovett gets off the phone and only just manages not to cry.

The problem’s not the script. The script’s going pretty well, actually — turns out it’s really easy to write comic antics in the White House. Too easy. He hasn’t shown it to Jon, but he suspects Jon’ll find large chunks of it familiar, in spirit if not fact. Lovett came to Hollywood to do something, _be_ something different; he’d thought the distance would be enough for a clean reset. He left his sofa and TV and half of his wardrobe behind, but there were things he couldn’t bear to discard, tucked away in the tenderest part behind his ribs. So now here he is, three thousand miles away and still orbiting the White House, trying to figure out how to let go.

He’s no closer to an answer when Spencer invites him to an end of year party two weeks later, but he says _yes_. He needs a break, something new to replace old memories with.

———

Lovett’s making his way through a flute of champagne and trying not to think of the same time last year — to his deep chagrin, not much has changed — when he almost runs straight into Rashida Jones.

“Lovett!” she says, face opening up, unbothered by the near-collision. “How’s it going? What are you up to? How’s Favs doing?”

“Uh,” Lovett says, eloquently. He’d always liked Rashida, despite everything. It wasn't her fault he’d been so hung up on Jon. “I’m, you know, working on a pilot. It’s like a comedy about the White House, First Family stuff, so that’s like, going, I guess.”

“Oh, that sounds good,” she says. “Yeah, and you know so much about that. A comedy about the White House, you’d be great for it.”

“Thanks,” he says. There’s an awkward minute when she’s still looking at him, smiling, before Lovett adds, “You probably know how Jon’s doing better than I do.”

She doesn’t exactly frown, but there’s a quizzical tilt to her eyebrows. “No, I haven’t—” she says, “I mean, I see updates on his Instagram, sometimes. You’re not keeping in touch?”

 _Yes, and I shouldn’t_ , Lovett thinks bleakly, and drains the rest of his drink. “I think he’s busy,” he says, “State of the Union coming up, you know.” He holds up his flute, flashes her an apologetic grimace. “Gonna get a refill,” he says, stepping back and around a table before Rashida can make more than a disappointed noise. “It was good to catch up.”

“You too,” she calls after him. It’s a miracle Lovett doesn’t crash into anyone else while making his escape.

Maybe Lovett should’ve just left the party then; but he does get a refill on his champagne, and then another, and another, which means he’s well on his way to drunk in a secluded corner of the hall when someone else calls his name.

“Lovett! Hey, Jon.”

It takes Lovett a second to get oriented. “Chace,” he says slowly, while the guy comes bounding up. “Hi.”

“I didn’t know you were gonna be here.” Chace looks delighted to see him. “You should’ve said!”

Lovett first met Chace in DC, back at the 2009 Correspondents’ Dinner. They’d hooked up a few times after that. Never anything serious — they’d both been busy people, right? That’s what Lovett always told himself, with every guy he fucked.

But it’d been fun, what Lovett remembers. Chace is grinning at him, bright and inviting, and maybe this is what Lovett needs to get out of his head, break this stupid cycle he’s in. “Maybe _you_ should have,” he points out. “I could’ve been much more enthusiastic about this whole — affair.”

“Not having a good time?” Solicitous; suggestive. It’s been a while, but the game’s a familiar one; Lovett still knows how to play.

“Well.” He shrugs, and flashes Chace a wide-eyed smile. “It’s looking like it might improve any minute.”

Chace reaches to take the glass from his fingers, setting it gently on a nearby table. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing,” he says. “Wanna get out of here?”

It’s nearly midnight. Lovett’s unsteady on his feet, but Chace catches him by an elbow, doesn’t let go again. “That depends,” he says, something reckless burning under his skin. “Are you promising it’ll be worth it?”

———

They make it all the way back to Chace’s apartment. In fact, Chace is leaning over to kiss Lovett just inside the door when the hot desperate sensation in Lovett’s ribs collapses, suddenly, into a cold hard knot of certainty.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head, and presses Chace back with a hand against his shoulder. “I think— let me, um, I think I need a second.”

“Already?” Chace says, laughter in his voice, “used to take more than that,” but it’s all wrong, the wrong laugh, the wrong _person_. Lovett had thought he could pack up and move on, had crossed the whole continent to do it, but some part of him had stayed. He’d put it into Jon’s hands the night he kissed him, or far before that: the first time they stayed up until dawn to finish a speech; the first time Jon read one of Lovett’s lines and threw his head back and laughed, brighter than the sun.

“I can’t do this,” he says, “god, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Look, it’s, um, it’s complicated.”

“You don’t wanna fuck?” Chace says, bemused. “Too much champagne?”

That’s a way out. “No,” Lovett says instead, blowing out a breath. He’s in this now — he’s _been_ in it for years. He just picked the worst time to be honest about it. “I just— I have to be somewhere else.”

———

On one level, everything changes; on another, nothing does.

Lovett doesn’t go back to DC for the State of the Union and the inevitable political circus, but he’s watching C-SPAN when the stream goes live, early evening on his side of the coast. _Still think you should’ve used my joke_ , he sends Jon midway through, along with a picture of his half-bitten Oreo. _Twitter’s going in on that milk thing_.

 _You’re in the pocket of Big Nabisco_ , Jon texts back. _I won’t have it_. There’s a pause, probably Jon scrolling through the SOTU hashtag. Jon’s still not allowed to tweet, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t obsessively keep up. _Jesus, they really are._

 _Wonder if NPR is gonna do that word cloud again_. Lovett vividly remembers Jon’s reaction to that one. _How big is “milk” gonna show up?_

 _NPR should get a fucking life_ , Jon grumbles, predictable. _Don’t they know Republicans want to cut CPB funding?_

 _The National Public Radio is brought to you by listeners like you, Jon_ , Lovett types out, grinning. _And here’s your boss, talking about how bipartisanship would be nice._

POTUS has always been optimistic about that. Lovett had lost his faith much more quickly, along with Jon and Tommy and Dan, everyone who’d seen the Freedom Caucus stand for nothing except the freedom to be dicks. _Yeah, well, we had to try_ , Jon says, and in that short sentence Lovett can practically hear the remnants of every late night vote, every budget fight, every proposal that never made it to the floor. It’s tiring just thinking about it.

 _Next year_ , Lovett says. Pauses, nearly erases, and then keeps going. On screen, in Congress, Obama’s speaking about unity, and beneath his familiar cadence Lovett can hear Jon, earnest and steady, wanting something better. Lovett can admit that now; he could pick out Jon anywhere. _I’m not gonna let you cut all my best work. I’ll fly in to stop you if I have to, I mean it._

Jon doesn’t respond for longer than Lovett expects. The address is already over — even the stream is wrapping up, the white noise of the chamber dying down — when Lovett’s phone buzzes in his lap.

 _Don’t have to wait that long_ , Jon says. _Come in for the WHCD._

The invitation’s not quite a surprise. Lovett almost reflexively says _yes_ , and then _no_ , and stops to think. Jon wants to see him; he wants to go. It doesn’t have to be more complex than that.

 _Sure_ , he types slowly, one letter at a time. When he’s finished there’s nothing there to belie the certainty of his words. Maybe that’s the trick to making this work. _Yeah. Sounds fun_.

———

Jon’s there when Lovett’s redeye lands at Reagan, dragging his carry-on behind him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Lovett says automatically, shifting his backpack on his shoulder. It’s about fifteen degrees cooler in DC than LA, and he didn’t bring a jacket. At least it’s not raining this morning, just cloudy. “Thought you worked for the president.”

“Keep that up and _you_ won’t be,” Jon says. “Litt sent you the draft, right?”

“Read it on the plane.” Lovett waves his phone. “Good to see my contributions have been duly taken into consideration.”

“That’s ‘cause I haven’t edited anything yet.” Jon shoots Lovett a sideways smile before leading the way out of the terminal, and despite his earlier comment Lovett can’t help thinking that Jon looks like he could use a nice long break. Just a few days ago Jon had been working with Ben on remarks for the Holocaust Memorial Museum. He’d sounded pretty drained by the end of it.

But the Correspondents’ Dinner is always a fun distraction. Lovett gets a visitor’s badge to the White House — still a little strange, that — and they convene in Jon’s office to bicker over the edits. Litt comes by to make sure they’re not destroying his vision, and before long they’re in the Oval, doing a last run-through with the President.

“He’s not gonna keep the one Jeff sent,” Jon says in an undertone, waiting in front of the doors. “I don’t think. A dick joke? I mean, it’s an election year.”

It is an election year. Lovett, out in Hollywood, has the luxury of being able to forget that in moments, but of course that’d be at the forefront of Jon’s mind. “Yeah, probably not,” he concedes. “But whatever, let him laugh at it. It’s a good joke.”

POTUS does laugh at it. So does Jon, the faint anxious tilt to the corner of his mouth bleeding away, and Lovett has a fleeting moment to think that he wants Jon to look like that always, unworried and unbothered, before they’re wrapping up.

“How’s the script?” Obama asks Lovett before he goes. “We gonna see your name on a prime time show any time soon?”

“Maybe,” Lovett says, surprised. The meeting with NBC had actually been great; he’s almost sure they’re going to offer him something, maybe 12, 13 episodes. Not bad, for a first-time writer. “But don’t worry, sir — I won’t say anything bad about you.”

“Better not say anything at all,” says the President, mock-stern. “I have enough real problems. All right, guys, get outta here. Enjoy your Saturday.”

So they let POTUS make his tee time, and go to brunch.

———

They’re headed back along Florida Avenue to Lovett’s old place when Jon says, “So you never told me about your script.”

“What?” Lovett says. “Sure I did.” He remembers Jon asking about it back when it was only half-finished. He hadn’t sent it to him then, dissatisfied with the way it’d felt like he was circling around his past; but he’d finished the pilot in January, sketched out a tentative arc that might push through a season, and then—

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t.” He’d meant to. It’d just gotten lost in the myriad of other things that had needed doing, then.

“You don’t— I mean, you don’t have let me read it,” Jon says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But if you wanted a fresh pair of eyes, anything like that.”

The breeze is kicking up. Lovett shivers and considers getting another talking-to-the-President sweater: this one’s getting threadbare. “No, I do,” he says. “Of course I do. I’ll send it to you when I get back if, I mean, if you’re not too busy. You _do_ work for the President, or so I’ve heard.”

“Have you?” Jon slants a smile at him, small and private. They’re at 1309 now — someone’s left the door unlocked, probably Mike, and Lovett feels a flush go through him, walking into the front hall, the staircase to their right and the kitchen off to the left. “I don’t know, think I’ll have the time.”

It’s election season. The fundraising’s kicked up another notch; Obama’s doing an event with George Clooney in a couple of weeks, for god’s sake. Jon won’t, really. But it’s nice, isn’t it, to think that he’ll always have the time for Lovett.

“Let’s,” Lovett says, a little croaky, because Jon’s still looking at him, quiet and fond. It’s too much; no human being could stand being looked at like that for long. “You know if anybody else is around? I should catch up before I go.”

He finds Tommy in the living room discontentedly scrolling through his inbox, Cody half-heartedly watching CNN on mute, and successfully baits them into a defense of March Madness. Jon naturally takes their side, alternating laughter with vigorous gesturing, face too serious for such a dumb topic, but Lovett doesn’t quite shake the uneasiness off his shoulders until he’s finally back on a plane, headed for home.

———

Four days after NBC officially picks up _1600 Penn_ , Jon comes to stay with Lovett in LA.

Well. He hangs out with George Clooney first. Lovett’s just a fun bonus.

“Hey, congratulations,” is the first thing Jon says when he walks up to Lovett’s door, the cab driving off behind him. “You’re a showrunner now!”

“I guess,” Lovett says, waving him in. It’s weird to think about. When he’d moved out here, it took him six months to stop writing _speechwriter_ on every form that asked him for his occupation. Now he’s got a whole different set of titles, a TV show, a future stretched out in front of him in a shape he’d never really imagined. “Man, my mom wanted to know when she should be setting up her TiVo and I had to be like, Mom, do you know how many shows never make it out of production?”

“It’ll make it out,” Jon says, sure like he always is. “I read your script, it was—”

“Unfunny and poorly paced?” Lovett suggests. An ABC exec had said basically that before turning him down. Even after the deal, it stings a little thinking about it.

“No, it was great! I loved it, it’s really funny, and you have the—” Jon sets his bags down and waves, a wide gesture “—atmosphere of it down. You know, _The West Wing_ ’s great but you’re really leaning into the— absurdity, I guess? All the stupid shit that happens that people think the White House is too grand for. No one else is doing that.”

“They weren’t,” Lovett says gloomily. “I caught this show on HBO the other day, _Veep_ — just started running, and it looks like we’re going for the same niche. Could’ve used a warning, frankly.”

“Yours’ll be better,” Jon says, flopping onto the sofa. “C’mon, stop moping, you got a show deal, you’re the real thing now — tell me what it’s like.”

“What, _my_ life? The one that’s a series of meetings with old guys who hate fun telling me that my ideas suck? You really wanna know?”

“Sure,” Jon says. “How else am I gonna prepare for my own life as a Hollywood insider?”

Lovett sinks, abruptly, into the cushions next to jon. “Your what?”

“You know Tommy and I’ve been thinking about a show about the campaign,” Jon reminds him. “We’ve been talking about it—”

“Forever,” Lovett mutters, because they have been. “Yeah, I just. I wasn’t expecting you to be planning that far ahead.”

“Not that far,” Jon says. “I’m probably gonna leave after the election.”

Lovett’s ears are ringing, and the air in the room feels, suddenly, very thin. “After the election,” he rasps. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“A while,” Jon says, casual, like that’s not the most preposterous thing Lovett’s ever heard. Jon’s been working for Barack Obama since he was a Senator. Even after all the originals, the indispensables — Gibbs, Axe, Bill Daley — had gone, Lovett had thought Jon would stick around. He loved his job. Why would he ever leave?

Jon’s still talking. “—so I’m thinking about moving out here, actually—”

“You can’t,” Lovett says.

Jon looks, for the first time since they started having this conversation, completely taken aback. “What?”

“I mean you _can’t_ ,” Lovett says again, tipping into hysteria. “Why would you want— does Tommy know about this?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, like that should be obvious. “We’ve talked a lot about it. And you’re here.”

“You wanna move here,” Lovett says, “and be— be _around_ , and, and, what? Write your show and get to be a regular at some bougie coffeeshop and, like, get a girlfriend who does the same treadmill routine as you—”

“Lovett,” Jon says loudly. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Lovett says, plaintive and pathetic, “What am I going to do?”

“Whatever you want,” Jon says slowly, face a mask of confusion. “I thought you wanted — look, are you okay?”

“ _You_ kissed _me_ ,” Lovett says. He sounds ridiculous even to his own ears. “That time. I didn’t make you. And I know we weren’t gonna talk about it but you— I’m not just, you can’t just _come here_ and do— I can’t, I—”

“Did you not— want—?” Jon looks bewildered. “But we—”

Lovett starts laughing. Jon’s face is creasing into worried lines, and Lovett understands, would feel the same way himself, but it’s impossible to stop. “What I want,” he chokes out. “God. What I.”

“I thought you were okay with waiting,” Jon says. “I didn’t wanna, not while I was your boss— I _asked_ you if you were okay.”

“You what?” The giggles are evaporating from Lovett’s chest, replaced with a slow, creeping sensation. “You did not.”

Jon reaches over to put a hand on Lovett’s shoulder. Lovett can feel the warmth radiating out of him, bleeding through the fabric of his shirt. “I did,” he says, steady, clear-eyed. Nothing like a secret, this look. Lovett might go dizzy if he stares back for too long. “I asked. I’m asking.”

“If you—” Lovett’s throat is closing up. “But. You let me leave.”

“Oh.” Something changes in Jon’s face, going softer, apologetic. “Is that what you— Lovett. I wanted to come with you.”

“But you didn’t.”

The first time Jon kissed him, Lovett had thought that’d be all he’d ever get. This time, Jon leans toward him, and Lovett reaches back, grasp closing around Jon’s waist and pulling him in. Jon’s knee is jammed against Lovett’s thigh, his weight pressing Lovett back into the cushions, and it feels like Jon’s keeping him grounded, pinned so he can’t float away. A promise, maybe, the start of something instead of an end. 

“I wanted to,” Jon says against Lovett’s mouth. “I will. Tell me to stay.”

Jon’s got a flight in the morning; the election won’t be for another four months. All this time Lovett had thought, he’d leave, or Jon would leave: a binary choice, the same outcome. But here’s Jon, doing the thing he does best — tipping all of Lovett’s framework on its head, and offering him something else.

“Come back,” he says, pressing himself upright. Jon’s mouth is dark and wet, and if he can make it through another campaign then Lovett can, too. “You know where to find me.”

“Here?” says Jon, wrapping a hand round Lovett’s wrist, a touch of anxiety in his eyes like he’s afraid Lovett will change his mind. “You’ll be here.”

“Yeah,” Lovett says, helpless. Him, Jon. Maybe it was always going to end up like this. “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere.”

 

###### 2013

“Lovett?” Jon calls. The sound echoes up the stairs, muffled by the time it gets to the bedroom.

“Over here,” Lovett says, not bothering to be loud. He’s perched on the bed with boxes strewn all around the room; Jon’ll find him. He picks a frame out of the box closest to him and looks at it critically. “You brought this?”

“What’s that?” Jon’s footsteps come closer, and then he’s stepping through the door, iced coffee in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. “Here.”

“I’m helping,” Lovett informs him, taking the can with a quick _thanks_. “What could you possibly need this for?”

It’s a picture of the Boston skyline, taken from above. Jon’s had it forever, as long as Lovett remembers. He’d made fun of it in the White House, too.

“I like it,” Jon says, the same defense he’s always used. “I don’t see what you have against it.” 

“Did I say I had anything against it?” Lovett puts the frame down on the bed, lying back so he can grin at Jon. “I guess you can’t help it — you’re always gonna be a Boston bro.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Jon downs half his drink in a quick gulp, then comes to settle on the bed. “You don’t think I could be an LA bro?”

“Is that even a thing?” Lovett asks, but he shifts obligingly over. “What teams would you root for? What if they’re facing the Patriots?”

“Ooh.” Jon winces. “Hey, look, some habits are gonna stay.”

“I guess it’s better than that panorama of Bobby Kennedy.” Lovett leans over to poke deeper into the box. _Times_ article. Obama speech. Jon’s so predictable. Lovett loves him. “I don’t wanna think about fucking in front of that.”

Jon coughs guiltily. “Have you tried the other box?” 

“Oh, my god.” Lovett starts laughing, loud and clear, the vibrations rattling through the bed until Jon’s laughing, too. “If this is an exhibitionist thing, I want you to know now—”

“It’s for inspiration,” Jon protests, giggling, which doesn’t help. It’s a warm Saturday in LA; Jon’s here, all his stuff ready to be unpacked, and there’s a kernel of something light and delicate unfurling in Lovett’s chest, starting to take root. “Maybe I’ll put it downstairs.”

“Sounds good,” Lovett agrees. “Bodes well for our sex life.” He turns his head, hooking his chin over his arm so he can stare at Jon’s profile. “So hey,” he says on an impulse, sudden and soft. “Welcome to West Hollywood.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, equally soft. He’s smiling at Lovett like he never plans to stop. “Think I’ll stay a while.”


End file.
